


Coulson on Coulson

by Midorisakura (Calacious)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Crack and Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings of being replaced, Fluff and Angst, LMD, Massage, Multi, Sex with an LMD, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Midorisakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been created for emergency use only, or for those times when he needed to leave Clint for long (read years) periods of time, but this was not one of those times, and this was no emergency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coulson on Coulson

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head shortly after I wrote about Coulson never dying, and, well, I went with it. It's crazy, and I know that it's imperfect, but here it is.
> 
> I hope that someone, somewhere out there, likes this crazy little thing.

He’d commissioned Stark to make the unit, because he’d wanted to keep knowledge of its existence from Fury. It was supposed to be for emergency use only, or for those times when he needed to leave Clint for long periods of time, but this was not one of those times, and this was no emergency. For a Life Model Decoy (LMD), it was surprisingly intelligent, and responsive, but that’s what he’d told Stark that he wanted. It’s why he had the thing created in the first place – to mimic him.

Still, staring at a robotic version of himself that he’d had created as a stand-in for himself; he couldn’t help but shiver. Did he really do that with his eyes – crinkle the corners up – and did his lips really move like that when he…when he and Clint _did stuff_?

It was both fascinating, and somewhat disturbing, watching himself watch himself, because the LMD was looking back at him with the same pinpoint intensity. An intensity that, apparently, they both shared. An intensity which was kind of… _hot_.

Coulson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _This is not happening. It isn’t. Just…no._

He was tired. It had been a long day, an even longer op. He’d been away from Stark Towers, and Clint, for months. _Too many months._

He was tired, and sexually deprived, and Clint wasn’t in their shared suite. He was out doing something Avenger related.

So, it was just him, the real Coulson, standing in the doorway, and the not-quite-clone-but-close-enough-Coulson sitting on the bed that he (the real Coulson) and Clint shared. The LMD was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, adorned with hearts – something that the real Coulson, he, would never wear – and a thin, white wife-beater that showcased muscles that few believed the real Coulson had. Or, were surprised that he had when he was out of his suit, which was close to never.

He wouldn’t be in this line of work if he didn’t have muscle. If he couldn’t hack the _tougher_ aspects of leading an agency within S.H.I.E.L.D., he wouldn’t be there, period. So, yeah, he had muscle. Muscle and grit and tenacity.

He was in his suit right now– granted, it was a little worse for the wear, bombs and barely dodged bullets have a tendency to damage even the best of suits. He’d yet to even loosen his tie – he’d been kind of counting on Clint wanting to do that part, and the rest of the undressing of him. It had been a _long, long_ time.

“It’s hard on him, you know,” the LMD said. It was toying with the edge of a crumpled sheet. Coulson wondered if Clint’s side of the bed was still warm. If the LMD was keeping _his_ side of the bed warm, waiting for Clint to return, and if that’s why it hadn’t yet left, even though Clint had left the Towers to fight the most recent foe several hours ago.

Coulson nodded and leaned against the doorjamb, weary and wary and just plain exhausted. He’d been looking forward to reuniting with Clint, not seeing that Clint had, apparently, replaced him with the LMD. Had he really been gone _that_ long?

“He gets lonely,” the LMD added, and it started smoothing out the sheets. It wasn’t looking at Coulson, but at its own hand, the hand smoothing the sheets.

Coulson cleared his throat, because it was starting to close up. “That so?” he asked, feeling lonelier and more tired than he’d ever remembered feeling, and that was saying something, because he’d actually died once. Been resurrected, and in a manner which didn’t bear thinking about, but, still, he’d been dead as a doornail, and death, what he _could_ remember of it, was lonely.

The LMD raised its eyes to meet Coulson’s stare, and they held gazes for a few moments that might’ve bled into minutes. Time seemed to have decided to stand still, and Coulson decided to let it. Not that he could control time and space or anything absurd like that. But, he _could_ control whether or not he moved, and right now, he chose not to.

The LMD looked away first, a small frown marring its features, making Coulson feel old, because of the lines that he saw edging the LMD’s mouth – a mirror of his own. Tony Stark was a little _too_ good at what he did.

“You get lonely too,” the LMD said, voice little more than a murmur, head tilted at an angle that Coulson wasn’t sure was his own, or something that the LMD had adopted through its interactions with Clint, and, possibly others in the Towers.

Coulson shrugged, and the movement was echoed by the LMD. The LMD cocked its head and raised its eyes to Coulson’s again. Coulson drew in a breath, and laid his head against the door. He was too old for this kind of thing. Too old and tired.

If Clint wanted to fuck around with an LMD while Coulson was away on S.H.I.E.L.D. business because he got _lonely,_ who was Coulson to pass judgment? That’s what he’d asked for when he’d paid Stark to build the damn thing, wasn’t it?

Jealousy burned an acidic trail from his stomach to his mouth, and Coulson pressed a hand to his mouth. He was disgusted with himself, with Clint.

“You could’ve sent me,” the LMD spoke Coulson’s thoughts before he could even think them and that only served to make Coulson angrier. The LMD had stolen his man, and now it was stealing his very thoughts. It was stealing his life, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“And let Skye and May, Peterson and Fitz –“

“Work with a lesser version of yourself?” the LMD finished his sentence, quirking an eyebrow, and smiling sardonically.

“They count on me,” Coulson defended, and shook his head. He was defending himself, in essence, _to_ himself.

The LMD nodded, and patted the bed. “You’re tired, and, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got hidden injuries. I’m not Clint, but, I can offer you first aid.”

The abrupt change of subject was dizzying, as was the unassuming smile that the LMD wore. It patted the bed again, and sighed.

“Promise I won’t bite.”

It raised both eyebrows and hands, exuding charm and defenselessness. Tricks that Coulson knew all too well. He did the same thing when trying to soothe Clint after a mission.

Coulson snorted. “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait for Clint.”

_Provided that it’s me, and not the LMD he wants occupying his bed,_ Coulson thought with a frown. Maybe Clint preferred the LMD version of him over the real thing. Maybe he should ask Stark to make him an LMD version of Clint.

“He won’t be back for hours,” the LMD said, lips turning downward. It was a classic look of disappointment, geared toward making Clint, or whoever Coulson aimed it at, feel guilty. The LMD had it down pat, which was rather unsettling. He was giving himself a guilt trip, and doing a pretty fine job of it, if the churning in his gut was anything to go by.

“And, you look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” the LMD pointed out, keeping its voice matter-of-fact, as though reasoning with a madman – a tone of voice that he used chiefly with Clint when the archer was being particularly stubborn.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” the LMD asked, lips in a thin line as it drove its point home. The tone of voice used by the LMD indicated that it thought that Coulson was behaving foolishly.

Coulson had to concede that he was. If he hadn’t been leaning against the doorjamb, he’d have fallen flat on his face already. Coulson wondered if he sounded this parental with Clint, this patronizing. If the only reason that Clint succumbed to him, time and time again, was because Coulson had shamed him into it. It was a sobering thought, and feeling overwhelmed with guilt, Coulson pushed away from the door frame.

He swayed in place for a few seconds, and then warm hands were on him, leading him further into the room, steering him toward the bed, guiding him to sit, and then lie down. He blinked up at himself, and the room seemed to spin.

_When did Clint have a mirror installed in the ceiling?_ he thought, and then it hit him, he wasn’t staring at a reflection in a mirror, he was staring at the LMD Stark had created for him. It was the LMD which had caught him before he’d made a fool of himself by face planting in the middle of the bedroom floor.

“Here, let me get that for you,” the LMD said as it tugged on Coulson’s tie. Coulson tried to bat the hand away, but the LMD was quick, and efficient, and the tie was loosened and being removed before he could properly protest the action.

He felt…violated, and mildly turned on, and shivered in response when the LMD started working on divesting him of his suit coat and shirt.

It was absurd, watching himself undress himself, and being unable to really do anything to stop or aid in the process because he was so damn tired, and it had been so long since he’d been touched by anyone in a manner that was even remotely intimate that he found himself almost enjoying it. It was like he was outside of his own body, his mind in some kind of fugue state, except he’d not wandered away from home, he’d wandered into his own home – but was no less lost for it.

“It’s okay,” the LMD reassured him, running a hand through his hair. “Let me help you. It’s what I’m here for. What I’ve been created for.” It pressed its lips to Coulson’s forehead. They weren’t cold, but they weren’t warm either. They didn’t feel like rubber or plastic. They felt…human.

And wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? The LMD knew the truth about its own existence, understood its place, the role in life it had been assigned, and it seemed almost _happy_ about it. Coulson doubted he’d be happy if their roles were to be reversed. If he’d learned that he was some kind of robotic stand-in for someone else, that his life wasn’t real, he wouldn’t be nearly as calm if he met the prototype – the real him.

And that’s part of what terrified him about what Fury had allowed to happen to him after he’d died – was he really himself, or was he some kind of clone? Was he, in fact, little more than an LMD, some toy that someone like Tony Stark had cooked up in a lab?

“Stop thinking so hard,” the LMD chided. “You’re going to give yourself a headache.”

It was smiling – another one of those indulgent ones that Coulson typically reserved for when Clint was behaving like an ass, hurting himself unnecessarily by refusing the help that Coulson could give him in favor of ‘toughing’ something out. Coulson frowned at the LMD, pushed aside the machine’s hand when it started to unbuckle his belt. He could do that himself, thank you very much.

The LMD chuckled and rested a hand on Coulson’s knee. It was still smiling, and Coulson wondered if Clint had ever wanted to knock that stupid smile off of his face – it was condescending and maddening, and Coulson had never been so angry with himself.

His hands shook, and, it would have been embarrassing, except he refused to be embarrassed in front of himself. In spite of the shaking, he managed to work the belt buckle free, though, when he tried to sit up to take it off, he was hit by a wave of dizziness, a remnant of the fatigue (being awake for seventy-two hours straight did that to a guy) and the firefight that had left him battered and bruised.

“Let me,” the LMD offered, and Coulson recognized the tone of voice. It was one that he employed, often, with Clint when the younger man was being especially obstinate, which happened whenever he was injured. Which happened far too often for Coulson’s liking.

Resigned to the fact that he couldn’t in fact, sit up, let alone remove the belt from the loops in his pants, Coulson closed his eyes and nodded. He was lifted, hand resting on his lower back, his own head resting against the LMD’s chest.

There was a faint, rhythmic sound that could’ve passed for a heartbeat, and Coulson wondered if, when Clint and the LMD were… _together, like that_...the steady beat ever increased with exertion, or if it remained the same, because surely robots didn’t get hot and bothered, didn’t work up a sweat like humans did. They weren’t animals, after all. It wasn’t like they were _real._ Coulson wondered what Stark would do to him if he knew what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pretty.

“You’re tense,” the LMD stated the obvious, voice even and low, as though fearful Coulson would suddenly find strength to flee the room.

Its hands were on Coulson’s back, and it had started to trace circles in it, massaging aching muscles, making them burn and loosen with the tips of its fingers. Coulson knew these tricks, used them often with Clint, because Clint’s shoulders and back were almost always one big knot. It was because he was an archer, because he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The LMD was now straddling his hips, and Coulson was only dimly aware that he was only wearing his pants now, that he’d been stripped of his suit coat, shirt, and undershirt, that his belt was lying somewhere on the floor, wherever the LMD had seen fit to drop it.

The fingers, _his_ fingers, felt good, even as they dug into the tight knots, bringing pain before they brought relief. The LMD was good, but Coulson shouldn’t be surprised. He was good, too. Had managed to work Clint into a state of Jell-o-like bliss on more times than he could count.

“You shouldn’t be too harsh on him,” the LMD murmurs, lips brushing against Coulson’s ear. “Mr. Stark thought he needed me. And, to be fair, he did. He needed one of us, anyway.” There’s a hint of bitterness to the LMD’s confession, maybe a touch of jealousy, and Coulson wonders what it’s like to be used like that – kept locked up, powered down, until needed.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was pleased to stand in for you,” the LMD says, and Coulson can hear a smile in its voice, and he can picture the sardonic quirk of its lips. It’s trying hard not to wallow in self-pity.

“Clint didn’t even know it wasn’t you. Thought you’d come back. He was a mess, and I let him take what he needed. When he came to his senses…well, he wanted you, and not me.”

Warm air grazes his ear, and Coulson can hear thickness in the LMD’s voice, wonders how Stark managed to work emotions into the decoy. Emotions that were paralleling his own, because he should have been there for Clint, he should have been the one to offer comfort or solace, or whatever it was that the younger man needed. Him and not one of Stark’s masterpieces, no matter how much like him it was.

Coulson swallowed past a lump in his throat, his mind supplying terrible images related to possible scenarios for why Stark had thought it necessary to make use of the LMD. Why Stark had thought there’d been no other recourse.

“Is he…” Coulson couldn’t finish the thought.

“He’s alright now, but you know how stubborn he can be,” the LMD chuckled. It sounded hollow, forced, to Coulson, and he wrapped his arms around the LMD, responding to the despondency he could detect in a voice so like his own that he was having a hard time discerning one from the other in his exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Coulson admitted, lips rubbing against the LMD’s chest. The skin was neither warm nor cold. It was set to an average body temperature, but there _was_ a very physical response to the inadvertent touch – goose bumps and a shudder, an intake of breath that was almost human.

The kiss was not wholly unexpected, but it wasn’t what Coulson had anticipated either, though he supposed that he should have anticipated the moves that LMD would make, because they were his own moves. The LMD shifted its weight on his lap, moved its hands to his lower back, and pressed its lips, first to his collarbone, then to the soft juncture between collarbone and neck, where his pulse thrummed, steadily increasing as the LMD’s lips made their way from the hollow of his throat to his chin, then up to his mouth.

He gasped, mouth opening, body responding in a way that it never had with Clint, because, well, he knew what he liked, and the LMD knew it as well. Knew him so intimately that bringing him pleasure took virtually no effort on its part at all.

“Let me help you,” the LMD begged, and Coulson trembled at the echo of his own need in the LMD’s voice. “Let me make you feel better?”

Coulson couldn’t find his voice, didn’t need to, he simply let go, let the LMD lead the way, because he was tired and Clint wasn’t there, and he was so damn needy. So damn primed after months of being Clint-deprived.

He opened his eyes, stunned that the LMD’s eyes were so bright, so keen with artificially constructed intelligence. He’d have to remember to thank Stark for that, though he had a feeling that, after whatever it was that was about to happen between him and his LMD, he’d be a little too ashamed to face anyone for a couple of weeks, at least.

But, he needed this, needed what the LMD could offer him right here, right now. His stomach clenched and he let the LMD finish stripping him, shucking his pants, and then his boxers. He kept his socks, because his feet were cold, and there were more important things to attend to than a pair of socks with a hole in the left toe. He’d throw them out later.

The LMD’s lips were soft and supple, the teeth hard and unrelenting as they scraped the underside of his jaw, marking and bruising him as it, by turns, sucked and nipped, and licked at his neck, his lips, his earlobes.

It was heady and unnerving and exactly what he needed, but then, it _should_ be, because the LMD had been programmed, by the best, to mimic him in every way. Was it any wonder that it would know exactly how to pleasure him? It was like pleasuring himself, except with the added benefit of having extra hands, lips, tongue, teeth…to work with.

“Guuh,” Coulson breathed out. He threw his head back, let the LMD ply him with kisses from mouth to sternum, felt hands groping, fingers pressing into his hips. The LMD’s lips crept lower, left miniature fires in their wake.

It was getting hard to breathe, harder to think coherent thoughts, because the LMD was _licking_ him. The tongue was surprisingly wet and yielding, the tip firm as it was pressed against the underside of the head of his hardened cock. Coulson’s vision whited out and he scrabbled for purchase on something, anything, fingers gripping the LMD’s hair. There wasn’t much there, but it was enough, and the LMD was a fucking genius at what made him tick, and was it any wonder?

“Seducing myself,” Coulson managed to push the words out past numb lips, and incoherent laughter bubbled forth, spilled out of him. His hips jerked as the LMD’s lips wrapped around the head of his dick, and the LMD began to suck his cock, fingers gently twisting his balls.

“Holy fuck,” the epithet was harshly spoken, came from somewhere outside of the cloud that Coulson was floating on, but the sucking continued, and he grunted, moaned, thighs falling wide, giving the LMD greater access, begging, silently for release.

“Shit, Coulson, what the fuck, man?”

He recognized the voice, knew that he should say something, but his eyes were half-lidded, focused on his own eyes, the eyes of the LMD as it pleasured him, sucking and licking, expertly applying its fingers to various parts of him to enhance his pleasure. It _knew_ him. Knew what he wanted, what he needed, what would make him come undone.

There was a loud slurp and pop, and the LMD turned its head, lips full and bruised looking, cheeks flushed.

_How the fuck did Stark make things like that possible?_ Coulson wondered, even as he allowed his eyes to be drawn to the source of the LMD’s wavering attention.

Clint stood in the doorway, silhouetted by light from the hallway, face warring between hurt and anger. The LMD titled its head.

“Care to join us?” it asked, and Clint looked from the LMD to Coulson, mouth agape, eyes wide. “We won’t bite.”

“Hard,” Coulson added, suddenly feeling playful, enjoying the baffled look on his lover’s face, the way that his eyes had darkened, the pupils dilating considerably as he licked his lips and slowly approached the bed as though afraid that they _would_ bite.

It wasn’t that hard, shifting so that they could accommodate Clint, Coulson sandwiched between them, because it had been so long, and this time _he_ was the needy one. It was a perfect fit, all three of them: Coulson, the LMD, and Clint.

It wasn’t long after Clint arrived – fingers expertly working tight muscles loose, spreading and slicking him, filling him, the LMD’s mouth and tongue and teeth making him gasp and curse in languages he seldom spoke – before he was coming with Clint buried inside of him, seed spilling into the LMD’s ready mouth. The LMD jerked itself off in a few quick, precise movements that Coulson, were he someone else, inhabiting a different body, would have been impressed by.

Clint came shortly after, shuddering, biting down on Coulson’s left shoulder blade as he rode out his orgasm and then pulled out. For awhile, they were little more than a gasping, trembling pile of limbs, bodies sticking to one another in the aftermath of their lovemaking, the aftermath of fucking Coulson.

“Did you plan this?” Coulson asked an indefinite amount of time later. Half-sprawled over Clint’s chest, a foot crooked around the LMD’s leg, he traced a new scar on Clint’s arm – the reason for the Stark’s emergency use of the LMD.

Clint smiled coyly, shrugged, and Coulson knew that what had happened hadn’t been planned, at least not by his human lover. He turned his head, and looked at the LMD, there was a look of feigned innocence on its face, lips quirked smugly.

Coulson laughed and shook his head. “I should have known.”


End file.
